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10.02.11

You used my pots and pans to boil a bond that you timed so cleverly.

You scorched black marks on my baking trays, unable to gauge the heat perfectly.

My tea was good, you said.

You have too many sugars, you said.

I drank up every last drop, licked every cavity coaxing granule.

You slurped only three-quarters of your cup. The rest congealed, fermented, amongst your laziness that moulded to your needless and bony frame.

The frame that I held up with pastry and cream when you would only confide in your 4x8 isolation.

Flickering screens nurtured the spaces between our allocated ends of our unmade beds.

We never were able to decide on a toilet roll.